Suffering as a Tribute

When I was still in my previous family, I wrote a letter to Marguerite, an ex-partner to Rei Xia, titled 痛苦作爲一種告慰, which would approximate the title here.

After the break-up between me and Lena, I went to see a therapist. It proves to be one of the most worthwhile things I have done in a while. A friend of mine is hosting a DBT session for me, though on-and-off. Sometimes I find it hard to apply those techniques & skills, not because I am in immense pain, but rather I am unwilling to get rid of the pain. Pain is something I am most familiar and have been consistent throughout my life, and pain is something which I interpret as a tribute to those who aided me, passed before me.

Recently I've read an essay claiming Jesus as transgender male, on the grounds of His chromosome cannot be XY because He was born of Virgin Mary, hence He wouldn't possibly had masculine body from a biological perspective. Indeed, there is only a trace number of documents regarding the early life of Jesus, perhaps it is deemed trifling. However trifling others might regard, those matter to me.

‘If Jesus hasn’t been crucified, what suffering of ours would matter? If Jesus hasn’t resurrected from death, what hope should we possess?’ That was the question Lena asked me. Yet still, is the Passion only a series of events happening within a week? Jesus lived a life of Passion, or rather to say Jesus lives as a Passion, and the Crucifix merely embodies the summit of His Passion. If we were to contemplate the personhood and godliness of Jesus, what a person He was?

He endures. Most of the scriptures depict Him as an old, weary man who has ‘no form or majesty to look at, nor beauty to desire’. If Jesus were to be a girl of exuberant appearance, would Jesus have lived a life where ‘many waters cannot quench love’? Yet, he had chosen – and been chosen – to withstand the cup of Passion. Albeit in a reverse direction, I think my life has much resemblance to the one of Jesus.

It was about almost eight years ago when I met the first transgender woman in my life. She was incessantly talking about surgeries to appease her gender dysphoria, in an Ingress community. I was shabby and inexperience in life, and later experiencing mental disturbance; she was clearly marginalised for talking like that, and then we two pariahs came together and talked together. Little did I know my life would be so intertwined with transgender community, and eight years later become a part of that community.

The initial encounter started with Ingress Fuzhou Mission Day, at a sleepless night I was chatting with some folks sharing the same fate as mine, restless. Some of those I later still see them often, yet I was oblivious that I would never be able to see some of them ever again. I saw Garfield and Patchy responding to my messages often, and by coincidence they were all transgender female. Soon the group became inundated with our conversation, and we were the only ones remain. I have acquainted Garfield from that point on, and to then a naïve and young me, she was someone I would dimly deem as an elder sister. She soon relocated to Shanghai and was quite occupied with her new job, yet me, as a bored dropout, bugged her for all day long. She would often reply with a sticker from the sticker set of White Kitten, erstwhile famous amongst the community. I was somehow pissed off at her due to her inaction, but what reaction I could possibly expect?

It was all merry and nice, until the dark clouds drew near. I heard some rumour about some Neko and Feather, and it turns out to be the singular trauma shared amongst those who have eyes to see. I recall a night when G approached me out of a sudden, asking for common drugs that can be lethal when overdosed. Of course, I asked her why, but she insisted so I gave her some recommendations. The recommendations were passed to Feather.

We were all devastated by the suicide attempt, or rather the failure of the suicide attempt; soon we knew that Feather ended herself in a ‘violent way’, which I dare not to imagine even to this day. Nobody concerned would speak about that, so I only saw the picture later - Feather was living with Neko, who has been taken into a torture camp as an attempt to ‘remedy’ her ‘transgender tendency’; Neko’s parents, in an effort to stop Neko from being rescued by her friends, faked her death.

Devastated by the news, Feather entered a period of unimaginable torment, and after months of unspeakable suffering, Feather ended her life in a location near the actual capture of Neko. Neko was released after half a year of torture, albeit broken and incapacitated, had faced the news that her partner departed in hopeless waiting.

Despite Neko survives the calamity and thrives today, too much have I witnessed. Those things became norms to me, I can almost pretend they are everyday occurrences. But the living can’t see the face of God, just as I cannot – nor can anyone - become inundated to death.

We, regardless of our intent, became a generation burdened with memories. Even I was not transgender at that time, nor until very recently, the memories have become a part of us. I can still name a few: LittleDream, DoNotExist, and others whose names are fading in the wind.

I tried to remember as much as I can in the beginning, then I tried to forget, then I have known that I cannot forget. I still vividly remember the image where LittleDream amazed upon the scenery of the rooftop before she ended her own life – did those dazzling urban lights fulfil her violent dreams and delights? I am more than ready - way more than ready, gladly ready - to follow suit; yet I cannot, for I am burdened with those memories.

When people die, only a tiny part of them actually depart at that time, to the resting place the Lord has prepared for them; however, a large piece of them still exist in our memories, through our writing, living, speaking, and acting every day. Our lives are reminiscences of others; hence I cannot depart however I wish.

Recently when I work at my new position, I pray twice a day – for those who were not afford any lighting when I was in the slums, for my peers who worked in those textile sweetshops, for my friends who had no choice before the eventual, painful death. I would recite For the Fallen in the morning, for there is no going down of the Sun and in the morning for my peers in destitution. I would pray Nunc Dimittis in the evening as an addition, for I know every single day is a prolonging for me.

I still feel shame for being afforded with natural lighting, and adequate artificial one. I know how many in the slums cannot see a ray of light, and a horde of them live for the tiniest silver of hope. That, I remember.

Both me and Lena, or rather our survivals, are dependent on the resurrection of the Lord. If Jesus hadn’t risen, who would have witnessed our pain, or grant us a name better than that of sons and daughters? If Jesus hadn’t risen, what the reminder of our lives would serve anyone any good?

I realise that sometimes life can be painful; or rather in my case it’s almost always painful. I haven’t allowed myself to be happy for a while, but there are dashes of delight, splashes of happiness. I will forever, equally remember that time when I approached Chengdu by air for the passing Lunar New Year, how beautiful the world was that I had not imagined. I am allowing myself to be happy occasionally; for they, if it were in a world of justice, would receive the same joy and peace that I might occasionally gain.

For LittleDream, Feather, DoNotExist, and whose names are gone in the wind, I remember and suffer; for you I inherited the gift of life – the protracted suffering is a life-sustaining gift.